Reincarnate
by Vir M
Summary: To restore the TemenNiGru to its former glory, Vergil & Arkham must find the reincarnation of the blind priestess who sealed the tower millennia ago. Linaeve must cope with the devils, both literal and figurative, that surround her. Occurs before DMC3.
1. The Prologue Part 1: Vergil and Arkham

NOTE/EDIT: _The following text was edited and revised on 9/12/07. Enjoy the improved read._

* * *

Reincarnate

_A Devil May Cry Fan-Fiction by Vir M._

Prologue:

"**Unforseen Obstacle"**

"We have encountered a problem."

Vergil's eyes jerked up and away from the pages of his book and turned a vicious glare on Arkham. The scarred magician neither flinched away from the sharp gaze nor shrank from it, but rather met it with an air of lukewarm indifference. Vergil was not fazed.

"What?" he asked, acid dripping nakedly from the single syllable. His icy eyes flashed angrily at Arkham, who looked on as calmly as ever.

"As I have mentioned to you before, Vergil..." he began. "... we must release the Seven Deadly Sins from their confinement, restoring their names so that their spirits may once again reside in the bells festooning the Temen-Ni-Gru." His eyes, so strange in their mis-matched coloring, seemed to glimmer slightly in the half-light of the demonic study. "When the Seven are once again in their demonic-bells, and ring atop the tower, the gate to hell will be opened."

"Go on," said the half-demon warily, rising from his chair. He had been staying in Arkham's underground basement library during their search for the sealed-up Seven Deadly Sins. Four had already been released and sent to reside once again in the heart of the Temen-Ni-Gru, which as of yet had not risen from its underground prison. Vergil and Arkham had visited its halls several times to observe the lower levels of the structure in order to prepare for what was to come.

"The problem lies in their ringing." Arkham's voice cut through the still air like a blade, strangely muffled by the dusty books surrounding him, yet still clear.

"'In their ringing?'" Vergil reiterated, cold voice equally comprehensible. "Once the Seven bells are assembled atop the tower, you said that simply calling their names will compel them to ring... and thereby ring in the Demonic Realm." His eyes narrowed slightly; mere slivers of blue beneath pale lids.

"It seems your father was more clever than we thought," Arkham remarked dryly. "I have located a text that speaks of yet another enchantment placed upon the Seven Sins... or, more specifically, the demonic metal of their housing-bells."

"A seal," Vergil said quietly, almost to himself. He raised his eyes to look at Arkham. "A seal we can unlock. It should be easy for you, what with your extensive knowledge of demonic magick."

Arkham chuckled dryly at that, and Vergil's eyes only grew narrower.

"Arkham?" he asked slowly. He was met with only a slow smile.

"I am afraid it would be impossible for me." Despite this dismal statement, laughter colored his tone. Vergil bristled.

"What aren't you telling me, Arkham?" he snarled. His hand wandered to the hilt of the ancient sword bound at his side.

"I cannot open it," the scarred figure leered. "But the text speaks of someone who can."

Vergil did not speak, merely glared. Arkham took this as a cue to continue.

"The tome spoke of the mother of the priestess sacrificed by Sparda to seal the Temen-Ni-Gru away, and of how she was also a priestess before her daughter." Arkham's hands had hung limp at his sides up until this point, but now clinched visibly. "She cast a spell over the bells, prohibiting them from ringing unless a certain counter-spell is sung over them."

"As you can imagine, Sparda was pleased. The woman had a singing voice unrivaled by even the gods – in theory– and only the one who could match the purity of her song would ever be able to undo what she had done, meaning that the counter-spell was useless in the hands of the malignant souls of demons."

Arkham sighed heavily at this. Vergil remained silent.

"'The Seven Songs of Awakening' have been passed down among demons for millennia, though by now their true meaning and purpose has been lost. The succubus Nevan, living in the sunken Opera House of the Temen-Ni-Gru, would most likely know the ballads. She can teach them to the Singer."

"The Singer?" Vergil asked. "Who?"

Arkham's quiet laughter pealed softly. Vergil's hand tightened around Yamato.

"I'm getting ahead of myself... as I was saying, Sparda was greatly pleased by the woman's efforts. She was a demon-slayer as well as a priestess, and is responsible for the sealing of many powerful demons in the Temen-Ni-Gru, the Hell-Hound Cerberus among them."

"Sparda feared the power of the Seven Bells, and, as a fail-safe in case the tower was unlocked and ever needed the bells to be re-sung into silence ever again, he cast an enchantment over the woman."

"He cast a spell of reincarnation upon her: her soul, at the time of her death, is ripped from her body and inserted into an unborn embryo. Every generation she is reborn into a human woman. Her singing voice is passed along, but her memories are not retained, and so the Seven Songs are unknown to her. That is why we need the vampire Nevan to teach her the ballads."

"And we must find the reincarnation?" Vergil asked.

"Sharp as ever, Son of Sparda," Arkham murmured.

"But how will we find her?" Vergil intoned coldly. "There are billions of humans in this world; how will we find _one_?"

Arkham laughed once again, a sound that would have chilled any normal man to the bone.

"No need to worry, Son of Sparda." His smile seemed a jagged wound in the dim light of the study.

"Because you see... I've already found her."

* * *


	2. The Prologue Part 2: Linaeve

Reincarnate

_A Fan-Fiction By VirM._

The Prologue, Part 2:

"**My Name Is Linaeve"**

**or**

"**The Approaching Storm"

* * *

**

My name is Linaeve, and with the loss of my sight my dreams became more vivid.

It's strange. It is as if my subconsciousness, picking up on all of the sights I am missing out on, works in earnest as I sleep to provide me with toned and glossy imagery.

Most dreams consist of disjointed sounds, garish colours, little detail, and confusing logic.

My dreams, however, are different.

They are not disjointed– they are whole.

The colours are not garish– they are realistic, flowing.

The characters are fully developed, down to quirks and habits and empathetic gestures. They drive the plot of my dreams along like a dog herding sheep: orderly, consistent, driven.

My name is Linaeve, and with the loss of my sight came untold beauty.

I have been blind for three years, but only recently have my dreams become this way. Only recently have they become something I fear.

They have turned... disturbing.

Sinister.

My name is Lineave, and I cannot help but feel

–in my heart of hearts–

that a storm is approaching.

* * *

**

* * *

**

AUTHOR TIME

**This was the original prologue for this fic, but the other one (the one featuring Vergil and Arkham) won out and I posted it first. This is from the OC's point of view. I just thought you all might enjoy a little bit of mysteriousness and stuff. Ciao!**

**REVIEW REPLIES:**

**CANCERSTICK: **Another intro. This one is more my usual style, no?

**DEVIL AMY CRY HARUKA: **You'll see about the songs. I am very sorry to hear about your loss. You have my condolences... and a hug (hug).

**TARIELL: **You haven't read it? I'm surprised you understand XD It's good that you do though; I'm relieved I'm not totally unclear or anything!

**PUNKROCKER505: **Vergie for EVER!

**LADY CRYSTINE RAYNE: **Thanks for reviewing! You rock!

**DEVIL MAY CRY © CAPCOM**

**REINCARNATE and LINAEVE © VIRM.**


	3. Chapter 1: Progress

Reincarnate

_By Vir M._

Chapter 1:

**"Progress"**

* * *

_'Can the blind be claustrophobic?'_ I thought to myself, tugging at the top of my turtleneck. The confessional was stifling even though the day outside was a brisk sixty-five degrees. '_I don't know how long I can take this heat.' _A bead of sweat trickled down the side of my face, and with an unsteady hand I wiped the moisture away. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." 

"Speak," answered the priest on the other side of the screen.

I shuddered at the sound of his voice, and cold sweat mixed with my heated perspiration.

It was not my first time to confess to this particular priest.

I knew this man's voice, and prayed to not have to confess to him before coming to Penance. Something about him frightened me; made my instinct scream at me to run and my pulse pound with fear. It wasn't like me to mistrust someone I didn't know. I tried to see the best in people no matter what their voice sounded like, and I rarely felt revulsion for someone based on nothing more than a gut feeling. It petrified me that a member of the parish incited such a reaction within my soul; made me think there was something wrong with me. Something damned. My dreams had already planted that seed, and my reaction to this celebrant only allowed those roots to wind themselves deeper into my heart.

I tried to banish my feelings of revulsion and fear, but the effort was in vain. I would have to plow ahead, priest or no priest.

"I had a dream again, Father," I whispered. My voice shook, and I prayed that the cleric behind the screen mistook it for religious fervor and not my true feelings. "One of the ones I've already mentioned to you." Another bead of sweat made its slow way down my forehead, leaving a trail of coolness in its wake. I would need a shower after this was said and done.

"Ah."

The syllable said much despite its apparent brevity.

Since going blind, I forced myself to learn to garner information about a person and their emotion by analyzing the tone of their voice.

I could 'read' him like an open book. He was eager for a recounting.

I shuddered again, praying he could not see. Gathering what little courage I had, I began to speak.

"It began the same as last time: I was on the top of this tower, singing, and the man with the silver hair stood by me. I sang without thinking about the words or the tune; I just let the music flow. He stood there silently, watching." I fell silent, remembering the way he looked. He had been handsome, and his blue eyes were—as always—piercing. I didn't think anyone could look that striking in real life. It made sense that he was only a dream, though a deceptively real one.

"Go on," said the priest.

I shuddered again. "There were these bells, all around us, shaped like winged women and serpents. They were… cold, somehow. Very cold. Looking at them made my skin crawl." Another tremor arched its way up my back. "There were faces in the metal; screaming one. They were in pain. They were monstrous." I leaned forward and put my face in my hands. The cool metal grip of my cane felt good, pressed against my forehead as it was. "I sang to them, and they came alive, and started ringing in harmony with my voice. Then the man looked at me, and said over the pealing bells: 'Well done,' like I had done him some great service."

The priest behind the screen spoke up: "Perhaps you did."

My answering laugh was hollow. "That's what I'm afraid of, Father. I felt dirty singing to those things. I know they were just bells, but it felt like what I was doing was… wrong; like I was blaspheming." My throat felt thick with suppressed emotion. I couldn't put into words what it had felt like to sing those bells into song. "It felt like I was doing something evil, and though I know it is just a dream, I cannot help but feel that I have sinned."

"The Lord loves all his children, and you are his daughter," answered the priest. Despite his reassuring words, something in his tone spoke differently. I couldn't put my finger on the emotion, however.

"Yes, father," was all I could manage to say. He went on to prescribe a small number of Hail Mary's, which I dutifully committed to memory. I thanked the celebrant as soon as he finished speaking, gathered up my walking cane, and exited the booth. A rush of air greeted my departure, and I smiled in the blessed coolness.

I began to tap my way to the high oak doors that would lead me from the building. I went too eagerly, however, and bumped my shoulder into someone tall.

"Excuse me," I apologized, turning to them and bowing my head slightly. My victim said nothing, however, but I could sense their presence standing nearby. Puzzled at their silence, I entreated: "Sir or madam? Have I hurt you?"

A pause, and then: "No."

I smiled at the sound of his voice—that baritone could only belong to a man, surely— and adjusted my posture slightly so I faced him. I had been turned slightly to his left. "Good. Have a pleasant evening, then, sir; God willing." With one last smile, I turned and began to feel my way towards the door.

* * *

Vergil stared after the small woman, eyes narrowed. Arkham had not mentioned she was blind.

Speaking of Arkham…

Vergil turned briskly on his heel and strode across the high-ceilinged atrium of the Catholic church, straight into the confession booth the petite blind woman had occupied only moments before. Settling himself on the red-velvet seat, he knocked twice on the screen that separated him from the priest's sitting area.

"Yes?"

Vergil could only just see Arkham's badly scarred left eye, glowing red in the dim light of the confessional.

"Was that her?" he asked brusquely.

Arkham chuckled dryly, and Vergil ground his teeth. He hated it when Arkham acted so superior.

"It might be. Describe her to me."

Vergil would have pressed for Arkham to quit mucking around, but refrained. He wanted to get this over with. "Small woman with blonde hair, cut short, and cloudy blue eyes." She had stood at only about five feet tall, and her pixie cut hair had been trimmed very neatly. For a blind woman, she had been tastefully dressed: a turtleneck and slacks, the top blue and the pants black. Doubtless she had a contact who could pick colors for her. Or maybe she had a closet filled with the same outfit, over and over again. Vergil didn't really care which. "Light blue turtle neck; a wooden cane inscribed with a cross."

Arkham's mouth curved upward in what Vergil supposed was a smile. A cold, satisfied imitation of one, at any rate. "Yes, that is she."

Vergil's lips curled, mirroring Arkham's, though in comparison Arkham's smirk was worlds warmer. Nothing could touch the ice in Vergil's heart, not even the wicked thrill of devious fulfillment. "I see," he said, and though his words were mild they were touched with a cold satisfaction.

Progress, it seemed, had at last found them.

* * *

**

* * *

AUTHOR TIME (AT LAST!)**

**So I've been gone... for awhile. I AM SO SO SORRY!!!! I haven't had much time for fan fiction, so when I sat down to finally write something, I expected to write my most popular fan fiction, By Blood Connected.**

**As you can see, something went horribly, horribly wrong.**

**I sat down in front of my laptop, and what popped into my head was not Jira's story, but Linaeve's. Linaeve is one of my favorite characters (she's the only truly NICE DMC OC I've managed to write), and I hope you can learn to love her, too. **

**Oh! Something coincidental about Lin: I thought of her being blind before my accident. Weird, huh? And, by the way, my surgery went fairly well (I had a bit of an infection and was forced to wear an eyepatch, but I pulled through with top marks). Woot!**

**Thanks to all the people waiting for me to update my DMC fics, and an apology to those waiting for BBC in particular. Perhaps you can make due with this (edited by the amazing J, my beta, as always)?**

**DMC (C) CAPCOM**

**REINCARNATE (C) VIR M.**


	4. Chapter 2: The Nightmare

Reincarnate

A Fan Fiction by Vir M.

Chapter 02:

"The Nightmare"

I called a cab from my cell phone as soon as I got outside the church, and shuddered all the way home. When I finally got inside my apartment building, tap-tapping away with my cherrywood cane, my hands were shaking so badly that the tip of the staff made a staccato beat on the carpeted floor. When I managed to fish my key ring out of my pocket, I immediately dropped it. My cane followed the keys as I knelt and began to feel around on the floor. The clinking of the keys had been muffled by the carpeting, but I eventually found them. Patience and I had become friends over the years; sometimes, all I could be was patient until someone came along and helped me. It got that way when I was lost on the subway and was unable to read the maps.

Eventually I found the keys and let myself inside; my breathing became much less erratic, and my hands stopped shaking. I shrugged out of my jacket and hung my keys on a peg by the door, like I always did. My apartment was my sanctuary, a simple place made up of a kitchen and two bedrooms positioned on opposite sides of the living room. I knew where every last thing was, and could walk with confidence without the aid of my cane. No fear of tripping in there.

"Oh, you're home?" said a voice. Adrian, my roommate, was a third-year college student who helped me file my bills and pick my clothes in the mornings. She paid the electricity bill (I didn't use the lights or any appliances, and the stove and water ran on gas) while I covered the rest using funds I earned from teaching private music lessons. I also played the harp in the city orchestra, which helped my financial matters.

"Mm, what smells good?" I asked, inhaling. "Is that Chinese?" A warm, savory smell was wafting through the air, making my stomach rumble.

"Close—Korean barbecue," she said. "I got takeout after work. Let me get you a plate."

"Thanks." The kitchen was just to the right of the front door, so in I walked. I sat at the kitchen table in my usual place at the head, reached up, and touched the area on the table in front of me. Adrian had already placed a glass, a knife, a fork, a napkin, and a placemat in my spot.

I felt her presence next to me before she announced herself. "Hands off the plate, Lin," she said, "the food's comin' down."

Obediently, I put my hands in my lap as she doled out the barbecue, then poured me a drink. I heard her place the rest of the food in the center of the table, then the squeak of the chair on the tile floor as she sat down next to me. "How was your day?" she asked.

It took me a moment to respond, as I was currently exploring the geography of my plate with wary fingertips. "Oh, good," I said, wincing as I touched something hot. I had located the steaming barbecue and side of rice placed neatly side by side with an inch between them. "I had rehearsal with the company today, then taught four piano lessons and two voice classes, and was on time to everything. I made a stop by the church on my way back, then came home to find I had a delicious meal and nice company waiting for me. So I guess you could all that a good day." I smiled in her direction, and she laughed.

"Sounds like one to me," she said.

"How was yours?"

"Bad, actually. I was late to work, got chewed out by my boss, and I'm pretty sure I failed the quiz I took in psychology." Adrian was studying as a psych major.

"Ouch," I said, digging in to my food. Adrian was doing the same, if the constant sound of fork on plate was any indication. "I'm sorry. If you want, I can help you study." My memory had improved since going blind; it had to, seeing as how the art of reading Braille was a skill that still eluded me. Now, after hearing things only once or twice, I could remember them pretty well. If Adrian read her text book out loud, I could quiz her on the material later.

"I'd appreciate it."

We filled our dinner with idle chit chat and gossip (it was rumored that my orchestra director was sleeping with all three female violinists), then cleaned up our plates. Adrian turned on the news (the only television program I was able to 'watch'), and we settled in for a night of world events. That was when our conversation went from casual to personal. In the middle of a story about a water-skiing squirrel named Roxie, Adrian asked: "Hey, Linaeve?"

"Hm?"

"Have your dreams gotten any better?"

I froze, remembering my time in the confessional. "Yes," I lied.

The volume on the TV went down abruptly; Adrian had muted it. "You're a really bad liar, Lin," she said.

My sigh was equal parts defeat and tiredness. "I know. Is it my face that gives it away, or my voice?"

"Your body. You get visibly tense."

"Oh. Right." I laughed; it came out hoarse.

"You're avoiding the question," Adrian observed.

I sighed again. "I know."

"Tell me about the dreams."

"What's to tell?" I asked, and threw up my hands. "They rarely change, but I still can't get used to them." I paused. "Why do you ask about them, anyway?"

"You mentioned going to the church earlier," she said, "and you only do that when the dreams get to be their worst."

"Oh." I hadn't noticed a correlation until she said it.

"And I know you have no way of knowing this, but you have bags under your eyes. Plus, you've started drinking an extra cup of tea in the morning—the caffeinated kind—which either means you are building up a tolerance for caffeine or aren't getting enough sleep."

I hung my head. "Why do you have to be so observant?"

"Because that's what you hired me for," said Adrian, "and I'm not going to shirk my job."

I smiled. Adrian and I had met through luck, on a subway, when I dropped my keys and she helped me find them amid the bustling rush-hour crowd. Perturbed by my lack of sight, she insisted on walking me home, where I learned that she was looking for a place to live, and she learned that I was looking for a roommate willing to help me out. A scant few days later she moved in. She was so helpful and kind to me (though she did not coddle me at all; I despise condescension of any kind, no matter how well-intended) that I had very few hesitations about striking up a contract with her.

"And you do very well at your job," I assured her. "It's just that these dreams are… well, they're not something I think you can help me with."

Adrian snorted. "Lin, I'm a psych major—if there's anything I _can_ help you with, it's emotional counseling." Her warm, slender hand moved to cover mine. "You can trust me," she said in a tone of voice one usually reserves for skittish cats. "I won't judge you like some spiritualist would. Dreams are just dreams, after all."

It was my turn to snort. "But aren't psychologists usually the ones saying that dreams are products of the subconscious—of innermost and unexpressed desires?"

"Don't be difficult," Adrian sighed.

"I'm not being difficult!"

She pulled her hand away and stood up. "Okay, you aren't being difficult. But if running to the church every time you have a problem hasn't worked, isn't time you tried something else? Something like, oh, I don't know, venting to someone objective?" She picked the remote up off of the coffee table and turned the TV off. When she spoke again, her voice was tender. "Just think about it, okay?"

I did not reply, at first, even though I knew Adrian was standing very still and waiting for my answer. On a whim, I tried to imagine her face: she told me her hair was brown, that her eyes were hazel, and that her skin was very dark thanks to last summer's life guarding job, but even these clues weren't enough to lend me a proper mental image. The fact that she was tall, willowy, and beautiful (as my building's doorman had told me many a time) didn't help me much, either. In a situation like this, would her straight nose wrinkle at the corners from frustration; would the skin between her high eyebrows pucker and fold? Would the hazel eyes glitter with intention, or shine dully in resignation? Would the full lips pout, or draw into a thin, hard line? It was times like these I wished for my sight back; it was so hard to read people when they weren't talking and trying their hardest to be still in the silence.

"I'll think about it," I relented, finally, and heard Adrian heave a satisfied sigh.

"That's all I'm asking," she assured me, and stretched. The nylon woven into her sweater creaked. "I think I'm going to go to bed. See you in the A.M."

"Sleep well," I said, and listened to her walk to her room. When the door shut behind her, I stood up and walked to my bedroom on the opposite side of the apartment.

Inside, however, sleep did not come easy. I paced, afraid both of my dreams and the consequences having them again would perpetuate, because Adrian was right: even though my faith in God was infinite, my patience when it came to waiting for His work to be done was limited. I knew that if I had that dream just one more time, I'd crack and confess just about anything to my psychologist roommate.

To wind down, I put on my favorite pair of plush head phones, and listened to bits and pieces of the classical works I was to learn in conjunction with the city orchestra. Though I did not intend to fall asleep, it did not take me long to drift from alert to drowsy.

In my half-waking, half-sleeping state, I dreamed my usual dream, but in more subdued tones and sounds. Images swirled by like grainy film; incomplete and runny, pictures danced behind my eyelids like drunken soldiers who've fallen out of their marching formation. Accenting the mess was the sound of the classical music my headphones were blaring into my ears—the music penetrated the dream, giving me a tiny dose of familiarity and comfort. The music's orderly, metered rhythm and sound were a glaring antithesis to the fragmented, incomplete dream.

Even in sleep, I felt a muted sense of relief. I wouldn't have to sit through the dream in hi-definition, this time, because I never dreamed the dream more than once a night. I gratefully sank deeper into sleep, reassured that once this sloppy rendition of the vision was over, I could rest easy.

However, the dream wasn't typical, this time, and becoming dead-on somnolent proved disastrous. Voices I thought I recognized but had never dreamed of before floated to me from the mess. "Who the hell would ring the doorbell at this hour?" "I'll go get it. You wait here." "I'll go with you." "No, you stay here." "Check to see who it is, first." And then a high-pitched, terrified scream of pain and fear.

The dream progressed from that instance to another, as most dreams will, and this one was also new. The face of the pale, silver-haired man stood out as sharp as a knife amid the rest of the vague dream, every expression and thought laid out bare on his features. I could count his pores, number his eyelashes one by one, and hear his voice as if it was coming to me through a surround-sound system. It seemed, within the dream, as if he were standing above me, or as if I was lying out on some cold, hard ground…

"Linaeve!" he was saying—no, shouting. "Linaeve!" His gas-flame-blue eyes raged with anger, frustration, and the possessiveness of a boy who is losing his favorite toy.

"We made it," the dream-me whispered, smiling. "We… made it!" A hand—small pale, and obviously mine—reached up to touch the man's face, but couldn't quite make it. In response the man caught the tiny hand in his own and held it—crushed it—to his chest. His eyes widened in horror, and he held out my hand.

The hand had cracked like shattered marble, and dripped sand from each indention. As I watched, my index finger turned brown crumbled into dust, as did my arm. The cracks grew to cover my chest, then my face, and—

I began to scream, and thrashed in the arms of the blue-eyed man.

"No!" I shouted. "No! I don't want to die!"

"Lin? Lin, wake up, it's only a dream—"

I sat up in my own bed, back in my apartment. Adrian was kneeling at my side; her hands were combing and soothing my short-cropped hair.

"Oh, Adrian," I choked out, "it was horrible!" My arms, on impulse, went around her. "I was dying—my hands were falling to pieces, and—" As I grasped at the fragments of the dream, they fell away and popped like soap-bubbles.

"Slow down, Lin," Adrian said, hugging me. I began to sob into her shoulder. "It's going to be okay. It was just a dream, remember? Just a dream."

"But it was so real!" I wept, shuddering at the memory and the sensation of my hand crumbling into dust.

She hushed me before I could get into deeper hysterics, and extracted herself from my arms. "Come into the kitchen. I'll make tea, and we'll talk about this."

I knew, then, that I was willing to tell her everything, and I immediately felt better. My dry, gravelly sobbing stopped. "Okay," I stammered. "Sure. Let me clean up little, then."

Just then, the doorbell rang. I heard Adrian push back the sleeve of her long-sleeved nightgown to glance at her watch (she never took it off, even to sleep). "Who the hell would ring the doorbell at this hour?" she muttered. To me, she said: "I'll go get it. You wait here."

I was struck by a sudden feeling of déjà vu. "I'll go with you," I said.

"No, you stay here," she said, and the feeling intensified.

I stood up and followed her to the door. "Check to see who it is, first," I begged.

I heard Adrian press her face to the door. "Hey!" she said, both affronted and perplexed. "It's one of your priest friends!" She paused. "Creepy-looking guy, too—he's got really bad scars all over his face. Do you know him?"

"Adrian…" I didn't know the priests' faces, for obvious reasons both canonical and biological.

"Oh, right," she said. She made to disengage the deadbolt.

I grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "No," I said. My feeling of unease—my source less sense of déjà vu—had grown increasingly sharp. "Don't. I'll go to the church tomorrow and see what he wants."

She shook me off of her. "If he came all this way to see you, then we'd better let him in." I heard her fumble with the chain lock, then stop. "But I'm not decent. Let me get a robe."

As Adrian moved to her room and the closet therein, I back-peddled until I was in the kitchen. Acting more out of instinct than rational thought, I opened the door to the pantry and hid myself inside the food closet. Since I was small, I scooted underneath one of the low-hanging shelves and pulled a sack of papers Adrian had meant to recycle in front of my hiding place. Although I did not know if I was visible or not, I still felt more by secure being in a small, enclosed space.

When I thought about it later, I realize it was a coward's move backed by a coward's motive.

From my spot in the pantry, I heard the returning scuff of Adrian's house slippers on the hard wood floor. "Lin?" she said softly, but I didn't answer. "Lin, where did you—oh, never mind!"

Another knock—more insistent, this time—rattled the door in its frame, and I jumped, rustling the papers hiding me. With a surge of sheer willpower, I forced myself into absolute stillness, making my breath a shallow and rhythmic as possible. Even though my world was a perpetually dark one, I shut my eyes as though closing them would form a barrier between myself sand the world, and in that deep, black darkness of dread, I prayed.

"Just a second!" Adrian yelled as the knocking rose in tempo, then hissed: "Get out here, Lin! I'm letting him in!" The click of the deadbolt sliding free as Adrian freed it from its mooring sent a hollow chill cascading over the nape of my neck. "Hello," Adrian said as the door opened with a creak. "What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me where Linaeve is," said the voice of the priest who had taken my confession earlier in the day, and Adrian began to scream the scream I heard in my nightmares.


	5. Chapter 3: Caught

Reincarnate

A Fan-fiction by Vir M.

Chapter 03:

"Caught"

* * *

The scream dragged on into oblivion, shrill and clear and loud. I don't know how Adrian drew breath to fuel such a blast of noise, but in my hiding place beneath the pantry shelf I had to cover my ears to keep from going deaf. Still, my ears rang with the sound of her terrified bellow and my teeth involuntarily grit together in pain and fear.

The sound cut off abruptly, too quickly to be natural, and the sudden end was punctuated by the sound of metal on flesh. It took every fiber of my being to keep from crying out, sobbing, gagging when I heard the wet 'schluck' of something meaty hitting the wooden floor. A pained gurgle followed and my blood ran icy in the ensuing graveyard silence. I couldn't think beyond the phrase _OhmyGodAdrianOhmyGodAdrian_ as my entire body went numb_._ The words ran through my head like an overly long train, never ceasing, without rest.

I knew, beneath the shock, that Adrian was dead, but that knowledge seemed stuck in my head: my heart hadn't realized it yet and wouldn't let me respond the way any sensible, grieving person should or would.

So shocked was I that I did not react to (nor truly even hear) the priest when he said in his slow, purposeful speech: "There was no need to kill her."

Likewise, I did not comprehend the words of the other—vaguely familiar—voice. "She was making too much noise." Another metallic noise, the sound on steel on wood, and a click of metal on metal I could not identify. "And what do you care for the life of one, pathetic human?"

"We could have used her as the priestess' care taker. Are _you _willing to shepherd the blind woman through the Mansion? The Temen-Ni-Gru? Dress her, bathe her, feed her?"

The other voice didn't answer the question. "Just find her, Arkham. She's in here somewhere."

At that, my senses returned. They were looking for me, and Adrian… My breath hitched, and I felt myself start to hyperventilate because the fact of the matter—that Adrian was dead, my sweet roommate and best friend was dead, _dead_, DEAD—began to sink in. The only thing that kept me from breaking down into sobs and pitiable wails was the thought that Adrian hadn't died telling them where I was hiding, and I wasn't about to let her death (_death,_ DEATH) go to such a selfish waste.

From inside the pantry I heard two pairs of feet—one clad in boots, I was sure, and the other in dress shoes befitting a man of the cloth—begin a slow investigation of the apartment. One of the perks of being blind is that I knew roughly how many steps it took to get across a room, so I was able—after readjusting my calculations for both men's long strides—to judge roughly where in the apartment the men were.

Naturally, a plan began to bubble in my mind. Please split up, I begged them. Please go check the bedrooms.

Like magic (or divine intervention, as I was more wont to suspect) the voice I could not place suggested: "You go check that room. I'll check this one." His boots headed towards my bedroom, and the Priest headed to Adrian's.

I waited until I heard a noise from both rooms— the snick of an old trunk being opened in Adrian's, the opening of a closet door in mine—before I made my move. Pushing the recyclables away from me as quietly as I could, I crawled on my hands and knees out of the pantry, then stood and headed for the door. However, half way through I stopped, and turned.

Adrian.

Dead or not, I couldn't just leave her there, could I? And what if she was still alive? 'Maybe she just got knocked out' my hopeful brain reasoned. If that was the case, I couldn't leave her in the apartment with my would-be captors. It just wasn't right; I had to know for certain. I knelt and crawled toward the place where Adrian presumably lay.

I never got to her body. When my hands collided with a warm puddle that smelled of iron and salt, I lost my nerve and couldn't find the strength to go farther. Emotion— my tangle of hope, fear, and grief—drained away like water from a tub.

"So much blood," I whispered, the scent invading me. The thick liquid dripped down my fingers, and I wiped them on my pajama pants. There was no way she was alive. No one could bleed that much and live. "I'm so sorry, Adrian."

The next minute or so was a blur, made vapid by shock. All I know is that I eventually left my roommate and headed for the door. They had left it wide open. It took little effort to move soundlessly from my apartment and into the hallway beyond.

* * *

"Where is she?" Vergil snarled, flipping the blind woman's mattress with a flick of his wrists. Sheets and pillows fell to the floor in a cottony tumble, but no reincarnated priestess presented herself. The blind woman's scent—which he had picked up and committed to memory the day he met her in the church atrium—clung to the room, toying with him. He had expected her to be asleep in bed, given the lateness of the time, but she was nowhere to be found. Then again, that blasted dead woman's scream could have woken the blind woman up… but, Vergil thought, the blind couldn't move that quickly, could they? She'd had no time to hide, much less so thoroughly. "Where the hell is she?"

He felt Arkham's presence before the scarred man spoke. "I checked the other bed room, the closets, and the kitchen. She is not here."

Vergil swore. "Then where the hell did she go?"

Arkham held out a hand, palm up. "I found these in the pantry."

Vergil took a step closer to the priest, blue eyes narrowed as he beheld the three blonde hairs on Arkham's palm. "Sharp eyes, Arkham."

"Thank you, but I'm afraid this means she's given us the slip," he said. "The pantry—her hiding place—was wide open… as was the front door."

Vergil immediately pushed past Arkham, slamming his partner into the doorframe. "Why didn't you go after her?" he growled, anger rising in his chest. He'd been bested by a blind person—and a woman, no less—and his pride stung. He'd expected any movement she would make to be full of crashing and banging—she moved in perpetual darkness, after all: what right did she have to move silently enough to trick his demonic ears? He had underestimated her, and when he found that reincarnated priestess… Vergil stopped himself before his fantasy of ripping her to shreds went too far. After all, she was valuable to his cause. Killing her just wouldn't do.

* * *

Outside the apartment, my head cleared (at least, the side concerned with escaping did—I'm pretty sure that I was dealing with Adrian's death by subconsciously giving myself a lot of work and, therefore, a distraction). I realized I had two options. The first was to take the elevator down to the ground floor, where I would then request help from the doorman or security guard (hopefully the latter). The second option was to take the stairs.

Both of these choices had their flaws. If I took the elevator there was a chance the car was on a different floor, and would therefore come slowly. If that happened I could be caught waiting in the hallway like a sitting duck, or the 'ding' of the elevator bell would alert the people in my home to my plans. As for the stairs—well, I had never taken them before and since I did not have my cane the going would be both slow and difficult. There was also the possibility of taking a bad fall on the stairs, and if I broke my neck…

After deliberating for a moment, I decided the elevator was less risky. I made my way to the elevator—which was on the same wall as my home—and when my fingers collided with the smooth metal panel of the doors I fumbled eagerly for the down button.

It didn't take long for the car to reach my floor, but the alert bell was as loud as a lion's roar in the still air and the doors seemed to yawn open. Before they slid completely out of the way I had squeezed inside and jabbed the lobby button. I had no idea which button was the 'close door' one so I crumpled to the floor, folded my hands to pray, and pleaded with God to shut the doors safely behind me. With aching slowness they began to slide closed… but not before I heard a shout of 'The elevator!' and the pound of running footsteps.

* * *

Vergil left the bedroom walking, but he changed his stride to a long-legged lope when he saw that the pool of blood around the dead roommate's body had been disturbed: streaks of red led toward the door like smears of morbid maraschino cherry juice. He slid a little over the blood decorating the hard wood floor and had to leap to clear the dead roommate's bisected body (he'd never heard anyone scream so loud at being vertically cut in half, but he had to admit that the woman's attempts to hold the two halves of her body together was something new—even rather admirable, for a human) but he did not slow down in his attempt to follow the blood. The blind woman's progress was easy to track, too: handprints in blood decorated one of the walls. Vergil followed the trail of blood with his eyes just in time to catch a brief glimpse of a small woman in blue flannel pajamas entering the elevator car down the hall.

"The elevator!" Vergil yelled over his shoulder to Arkham, and began to flat-out sprint. Although he moved with preternatural quickness, he was not in time to stop the elevator doors from closing behind his quarry (the hallway was simply too long, and the priestess had too much of a head start). He skidded to a halt just as the doors slid shut, blocking his view of the diminutive woman crouched low on the tile floor.

"Dammit," he swore as the gears turned and the elevator began its descent. Drawing his sword—which showed no trace of the roommate's blood—Vergil slashed through the doors and kicked the pieces inward into the gloom of the elevator shaft. Eyes shining with ferocious intent, the half-devil jumped into the shaft after the broken shards of door, the tails of his long blue coat fluttering like wings in the darkness.

* * *

The doors closed just as the footsteps drew near, and I nearly broke down into sobs of relief when I realized that I was, at long last, safe. With every foot the car descended, I felt my sense of relief swell and grow until I was so joyful I could sing.

My relief, as it were, was short lived. The elevator car shuddered as several objects fell onto it from above, then _really_ jolted as something far more heavy landed on its roof. I could not suppress a little scream at the vibrations, although I managed to stifle it after a few frightened bleats burst out.

When the car stopped moving with a horrific screech and shake, however, I wasn't able to hold back a cry of fear. I scrambled to the car's control panel and began to mash at the buttons, but they were as responsive as pieces of dead wood. Even the emergency call button had stopped working.

From above me came a noise not unlike the sound of a manual can opener freeing the contents of a container of soup. I heard static as the lights I didn't need flickered out and recoiled as one of them fell from its mooring and landed almost on top of me. The light bulb within shattered, spraying me with bits of glass. Metal shrieked and hissed in protest and small shards of debris struck my face and neck. When dust made me cough and set my eyes to watering, I drew my knees into the chest and pressed my face into my thighs, then covered the back of my neck with my hands.

The noises stopped after a few moments, but the ensuing silence did not last long. A thump of boots on floor alerted me to the fact that, as much as I wished it, I was not alone in the elevator car.

My assailant had found me.

* * *

Vergil did not know quite what to think of the woman curled into a tiny ball on the floor. She had only given two brief screams when he landed on, jammed the gears of, and subsequently cut through the roof of the elevator carriage, so she didn't seem too scared, but her posture… He couldn't yet decide if the woman who had been so clever in her escape was a coward or a fighter.

Vergil stood from his crouched position, sheathed Yamato, grabbed her by the elbow, and jerked her to her feet. The woman did not resist, and her pale face was as blank as paper. Shock, then? Vergil wondered. Was she on autopilot? It didn't matter.

"Don't struggle," he hissed, wrapping his arms around her petite waist. She was so short, he noticed, that her forehead reached the level of his heart, but no higher. With a single flex of his legs they were airborne, leaping completely out of the elevator car and onto the roof thereof. The woman gave a little gasp and stiffened when Vergil said: "Put you arms around my neck."

She regained her senses, then, and pushed ineffectively at his chest, trying to get away. "Let me go!" she shrieked, battering his chest and arms with punches about as effective as an infant's.

Vergil caught her wrists in his hands—hands, he saw, that were stained a grimy copper with blood. Was she hurt? Although her pants and shirt were streaked with gore and she had a smear of blood across her right cheekbone, Vergil was unable to locate an injury. "I'm going to cut the cable holding the elevator up," he said, utterly nonplussed, "and if you do not hold on to me, you will fall. Now do it!"

The woman gasped, but her struggles ceased. "You are," she said softly, "the man I met at the church, aren't you?"

Vergil couldn't see her expression in the dark, but her feelings didn't concern him. The fact that she was able to place his voice after only hearing him state one word the first time they met, however, was unsettling. "Yes," he said, "now hold on to me." He released her wrists and she immediately reached up to encircle his throat with her thin arms. Realizing she was far too short to get a good grip, he leaned forward until his head bobbed nearly next to hers. When he rose to his full height again, his captive's feet dangled high above the ground and her head was pressed tight to the side of his neck.

"Get a good grip," Vergil said, and the woman clung even tighter.

Vergil's next maneuver was a simple one. He drew Yamato, took hold of the elevator cable with one hand, and sliced clean through the chord. The car fell out from under his feet and disappeared into the darkness. Silence reigned for a moment, but a crash of metal and a blast of wind signaled the elevator's eventual demise nearly ten stories below.

The arms around Vergil's neck tightened and the woman whimpered. After sheathing his sword, Vergil began to climb hand over hand up the severed cable, clinging captive in tow.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

One of the things I wanted to convey through this chapter was Vergil's feelings toward Linaeve. He does not think much of her. She is a tool to be used. And that is all.

He dislikes her, if anything. Vergil would do everything himself if he could, so the fact that he has to rely on a weak, blind little HUMAN to achieve ultimate power grates epically on his nerves. Add that to the fact that she (unintentionally) beat him at his own game (AKA she escaped unheard from the apartment) and you have a recipe for loathing.

My wonderful beta pointed out that Vergil seems more bloodthirsty in this story than he seems in the games, and she is right. Lin's purpose is to temper Vergil into the more level-headed game Vergil. This story takes place during the manga, which itself takes place one year prior to DMC3.

Sorry this took so long for me to update. I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for betaing, J!

DEVIL MAY CRY © CAPCOM

REINCARNATE © VIR M.


End file.
